


bliss

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: rareprompts [3]
Category: Free!
Genre: Junior High, M/M, Maybe feels, Pre-Series, not really angst but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4286733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Now</i> is Kisumi, standing next to him with his shirt untucked, his hands in his pockets.</p><p><i>Now</i> is Kisumi, saying, <i>Come, Makoto</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bliss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarblaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarblaster/gifts).



> This one's for Nova, who asked for KisuMako. I hope you like it ♥
> 
> Title and (loose) inspiration for this fic: Tori Amos' "Bliss".

There's the meaning of always, and then, there's the meaning of _now_.

 

/

 

 _Now_ is Kisumi, standing next to him with his shirt untucked, his hands in his pockets.

 _Now_ is Kisumi, saying, _Come, Makoto._

 _Then_ was the whispered promise of spring, ghosting over the surface of the pool; _then_ was the soundless splash of Haru leaping off the starting blocks, the perfect arc he made in the air.

It is cold outside, now, and the January chill bites at Makoto's chapped lips. He runs his tongue over them, unconsciously.

 _Don't lick,_ says Kisumi, _you'll only make it drier._

 _Now_ is Kisumi, reaching out. Not _up_ , no, because Kisumi's grown over the winter break and they're almost the same height now, but unlike Makoto, Kisumi wears his height with grace. Even with that easy slouch to his shoulders, Kisumi's tall, and effervescent.

 _Now_ is Kisumi reaching out, and brushing a bold fingertip over Makoto's bottom lip. Parched.

It is warm in the gym, and it is loud and urgent with the sounds of basketball, and Makoto takes off his jacket because he is sweating, and it feels intoxicatingly good to high five someone when he dunks the ball.

Makoto's never been good with the cold.

 

/

 

Kisumi's voice lilts, pitches high and makes Makoto think of the wind, tickling, teasing.

In the schoolyard after classes, Makoto watches Kisumi lean back, long and lanky, against the poplar tree, stare up at the bare branches and talk to him about practice, about his little brother, about the trips that they are planning for the summer. They always go somewhere different each year, he says, this year, to Hokkaido for skiing, next year, or the year after that, perhaps, the ocean.

Makoto blows into his gloved hands for warmth, smiles and tells Kisumi about the breakfast that Ran and Ren tried to make for him this morning. It had involved eggs and leftover _zaru soba_.

Kisumi's laughter catches the breeze, catches Makoto's breath in one euphoric instant.

_Did you eat it?_

Makoto had not. He had taken a few bites, as was his big-brotherly duty, and then discreetly thrown it out.

Kisumi cocks his head knowingly and gives Makoto a smile that pinks, round the corners of his mouth.

_That's what we do. Look after others, right?_

 

/

 

Makoto doesn't know if he's doing a good job of it. He never has. How do you know for sure?

 _Always_ \- _always_ is what will stay with you, for life.

 _Always_ is the twins and his family and _always_ is Haru, there, by his side, there, hurting, unknowable, hidden.

 _You don't have to try so hard, Makoto,_ says Kisumi to him suddenly, one afternoon, when they're watching the sun set from the dubious vantage point of the school library window. This is no place to be, Makoto thinks. He should be on the steps of that mountain, under the _torii_ gate; he should be by the pier.

Makoto turns to Kisumi, uncomprehending.

_Just be yourself. You can't fix everything._

_But -_

They do not speak of this, so Makoto stops, and doesn't say, _Haru_ , doesn't put a name to the spectre haunting his best friend's steps, because try as he might, he can't anyway. He can't see that deep into the well of Haru's heart.

Kisumi sighs, soft and wistful, leaning forward on his elbows. Threads of light in gold and mauve wind their way down the fine lines of his cheekbones. In that moment, like a snapshot, Makoto thinks he looks unreal, but Kisumi lays a hand on his forearm and his touch is real, so real.

_Believe in him. You can do that, right?_

Makoto nods, instantly.

_Always._

_Good,_ says Kisumi, _because I believe in you._

 

/

 

When Makoto licks his lips, he thinks of Kisumi, and remembers not to.

 

/

 

 _Always_ is -

Makoto's hands, wandering, restless, restless, over the many things he fears, touching their ice-cold surfaces and letting the tingle pulse through these veins of his, because it reminds him of what is real.

He leaves his fingerprints everywhere. He is clumsy like that, too big for his body; he _is_ his body, stretched and craving and taut on the tipping point, anxious to reach out and touch something that's true.

The ocean: that's blue for sapphires and smeared starlight, for swallowed secrets.

The dark: that's black, not the black of the night sky but _true_ black, black for a void, black for forgetting everything that he is, that he loves.

The past and the future: that's death, a thousand little deaths of goldfish and people and maybes, extinguished like candle flames as possibilities give way to realities.

The list of Makoto's fears is long.

But _now_ is a moment in _always_ , and perhaps, if enough of these moments add up, they'll tether him to a truth that rings clear as a bell, easy and uncomplicated, right here, right -

 

/

 

Makoto's hands come to a standstill on an exposed collarbone, pale above an undone button. He breathes. Takes a pause.

This is a bliss that's new to him, and maybe, it's one that he can allow himself to sink into -

_just for now._

 


End file.
